Poetical Works of William Cullen Bryant Part 26

There pa.s.s the chasers of seal and whale, With their weapons quaint and grim, And hands of warriors in glittering mail, And herdsmen and hunters huge of limb; There are naked arms, with bow and spear, And furry gauntlets the carbine rear.

There are mothers--and oh how sadly their eyes On their children's white brows rest!

There are youthful lovers--the maiden lies, In a seeming sleep, on the chosen breast; There are fair wan women with moonstruck air, The snow-stars necking their long loose hair.

They eye him not as they pa.s.s along, But his hair stands up with dread, When he feels that he moves with that phantom throng, Till those icy turrets are over his head, And the torrent's roar as they enter seems Like a drowsy murmur heard in dreams.

The glittering threshold is scarcely pa.s.sed, When there gathers and wraps him round A thick white twilight, sullen and vast, In which there is neither form nor sound; The phantoms, the glory, vanish all, With the dying voice of the waterfall.

Slow pa.s.ses the darkness of that trance, And the youth now faintly sees Huge shadows and gushes of light that dance On a rugged ceiling of unhewn trees, And walls where the skins of beasts are hung, And rifles glitter on antlers strung.

On a couch of s.h.a.ggy skins he lies; As he strives to raise his head, Hard-featured woodmen, with kindly eyes, Come round him and smooth his furry bed, And bid him rest, for the evening star Is scarcely set and the day is far.

They had found at eve the dreaming one By the base of that icy steep, When over his stiffening limbs begun The deadly slumber of frost to creep, And they cherished the pale and breathless form, Till the stagnant blood ran free and warm.

THE STRANGE LADY.

The summer morn is bright and fresh, the birds are darting by, As if they loved to breast the breeze that sweeps the cool clear sky; Young Albert, in the forest's edge, has heard a rustling sound, An arrow slightly strikes his hand and falls upon the ground.

A dark-haired woman from the wood comes suddenly in sight; Her merry eye is full and black, her cheek is brown and bright; Her gown is of the mid-sea blue, her belt with beads is strung, And yet she speaks in gentle tones, and in the English tongue.

"It was an idle bolt I sent, against the villain crow; Fair sir, I fear it harmed thy hand; beshrew my erring bow!"

"Ah! would that bolt had not been spent! then, lady, might I wear A lasting token on my hand of one so pa.s.sing fair!"

"Thou art a flatterer like the rest, but wouldst thou take with me A day of hunting in the wild beneath the greenwood tree, I know where most the pheasants feed, and where the red-deer herd, And thou shouldst chase the n.o.bler game, and I bring down the bird."

Now Albert in her quiver lays the arrow in its place, And wonders as he gazes on the beauty of her face: "Those hunting-grounds are far away, and, lady, 'twere not meet That night, amid the wilderness, should overtake thy feet."

"Heed not the night; a summer lodge amid the wild is mine-- 'Tis shadowed by the tulip-tree, 'tis mantled by the vine; The wild-plum sheds its yellow fruit from fragrant thickets nigh, And flowery prairies from the door stretch till they meet the sky.

"There in the boughs that hide the roof the mock-bird sits and sings, And there the hang-bird's brood within its little hammock swings; A pebbly brook, where rustling winds among the hopples sweep, Shall lull thee till the morning sun looks in upon thy sleep."

Away, into the forest depths by pleasant paths they go, He with his rifle on his arm, the lady with her bow, Where cornels arch their cool dark boughs o'er beds of winter-green, And never at his father's door again was Albert seen.

That night upon the woods came down a furious hurricane, With howl of winds and roar of streams, and beating of the rain; The mighty thunder broke and drowned the noises in its crash; The old trees seemed to fight like fiends beneath the lightning flash.

Next day, within a mossy glen, 'mid mouldering trunks were found The fragments of a human form upon the b.l.o.o.d.y ground; White bones from which the flesh was torn, and locks of glossy hair; They laid them in the place of graves, yet wist not whose they were.

And whether famished evening wolves had mangled Albert so, Or that strange dame so gay and fair were some mysterious foe, Or whether to that forest-lodge, beyond the mountains blue, He went to dwell with her, the friends who mourned him never knew.

LIFE.

Oh Life! I breathe thee in the breeze, I feel thee bounding in my veins, I see thee in these stretching trees, These flowers, this still rock's mossy stains.

This stream of odors flowing by From clover-field and clumps of pine, This music, thrilling all the sky, From all the morning birds, are thine.

Thou fill'st with joy this little one, That leaps and shouts beside me here, Where Isar's clay-white rivulets run Through the dark woods like frighted deer.

Ah! must thy mighty breath, that wakes Insect and bird, and flower and tree, From the low-trodden dust, and makes Their daily gladness, pa.s.s from me--

Pa.s.s, pulse by pulse, till o'er the ground These limbs, now strong, shall creep with pain, And this fair world of sight and sound Seem fading into night again?

The things, oh LIFE! thou quickenest, all Strive upward toward the broad bright sky, Upward and outward, and they fall Back to earth's bosom when they die.

All that have borne the touch of death, All that shall live, lie mingled there, Beneath that veil of bloom and breath, That living zone 'twixt earth and air.

There lies my chamber dark and still, The atoms trampled by my feet There wait, to take the place I fill In the sweet air and sunshine sweet.

Well, I have had my turn, have been Raised from the darkness of the clod, And for a glorious moment seen The brightness of the skirts of G.o.d;

And knew the light within my breast, Though wavering oftentimes and dim, The power, the will, that never rest, And cannot die, were all from him.

Dear child! I know that thou wilt grieve To see me taken from thy love, Wilt seek my grave at Sabbath eve And weep, and scatter flowers above.

Thy little heart will soon be healed, And being shall be bliss, till thou To younger forms of life must yield The place thou fill'st with beauty now.

When we descend to dust again, Where will the final dwelling be Of thought and all its memories then, My love for thee, and thine for me?

"EARTH'S CHILDREN CLEAVE TO EARTH."

Earth's children cleave to Earth--her frail Decaying children dread decay.

Yon wreath of mist that leaves the vale And lessens in the morning ray-- Look, how, by mountain rivulet, It lingers as it upward creeps, And clings to fern and copsewood set Along the green and dewy steeps: Clings to the flowery kalmia, clings To precipices fringed with gra.s.s, Dark maples where the wood-thrush sings, And bowers of fragrant sa.s.safras.

Yet all in vain--it pa.s.ses still From hold to hold, it cannot stay, And in the very beams that fill The world with glory, wastes away, Till, parting from the mountain's brow, It vanishes from human eye, And that which sprung of earth is now A portion of the glorious sky.

THE HUNTER'S VISION.

Upon a rock that, high and sheer, Rose from the mountain's breast, A weary hunter of the deer Had sat him down to rest, And bared to the soft summer air His hot red brow and sweaty hair.

All dim in haze the mountains lay, With dimmer vales between; And rivers glimmered on their way By forests faintly seen; While ever rose a murmuring sound From brooks below and bees around.

He listened, till he seemed to hear A strain, so soft and low, That whether in the mind or ear The listener scarce might know.

With such a tone, so sweet, so mild, The watching mother lulls her child.